


love the broken crown

by HasturIsMyCopilot



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Drabble Collection, Introspection, M/M, Manipulative Relationship, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Nonbinary Character, Season/Series 04 Spoilers, Ship Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:27:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26093344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HasturIsMyCopilot/pseuds/HasturIsMyCopilot
Summary: Collection of drabbles for #JonEliasWeek2020 on Twitter. Chapter titles will include the chosen prompt(s) for each day.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard | Jonah Magnus/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 22
Kudos: 70





	1. Day 1: Pre-Canon / HR Violations

**Author's Note:**

> I got hit with two ship weeks at once, pray for me

* * *

When it comes to managing his Institute, Elias Bouchard is nothing if not scrupulous.

Granted, a few things may slip through the cracks here and there. When so many of the pieces have minds of their own, it is nearly impossible to keep  _ everything _ going smoothly. But Elias has had a  _ very _ long time to perfect the finer points of business management. It is as much a point of pride as it is a necessity. 

So it comes as something of a surprise when he is greeted one Tuesday morning by an absolutely  _ irate  _ Human Resources director, there to inform him that the new research hire is in—her words— _ deep shit.  _

Naturally, Elias has already come to know young Jonathan in as much capacity as he’s deemed useful for the time being. Few Institute employees have not been— _ touched _ , in one manner or another, by the Forces That Govern All. Jon is no exception. The Mother of Puppets was upon him long before his interview, and Elias could see that energy clinging to him like a gossamer shroud. It was—actually rather beautiful. Like the veil of a young bride. 

Jon is not ‘in deep shit,’ as Madame HR so succinctly put it, quite yet. But in the last few weeks—and he’s only been at the  _ Institute _ for those last few weeks—he has managed to pass the mandated 8-hour-a-week overtime cap twice. The first few times he ‘forgot to clock out,’ he’d emailed her. After that, nothing. If he continues to ‘forget,’ and causes the Institute any more undue trouble, she has every intention of having him removed. With Elias’s permission, of course. Jon is just a researcher, after all. It’s not as though he’d be hard to replace. 

Elias must confess, though not aloud—he has had his hands, his  _ mind _ full with Gertrude and her myriad schemes. Once or twice, through the long nights watching over his Archive, his  _ Archivist _ —just maybe, he’d caught a glimpse of a light on another floor. Maybe he’d seen the young researcher with wide, hungry eyes at his desk, poring over books from the Institute library and taking frantic notes for hours, with no real desire but to seek truth. Causing little more harm in the grand scheme of things than a gnat causes harm to an elephant. Elias has had  _ so _ much more to worry about. 

But if this triviality is  _ really  _ causing  _ so much trouble _ for Human Resources, he supposes he can have a word with Jon later. 

And in-person, if only so it helps carry the point across. 

Jon’s desk is one of several in the research office, his chair facing away from the entrance and toward the center of the room. It’s close to eleven, by the glowing hands of Elias’s watch, and Jon does not hear him approaching for the sole fact that he is fast asleep. 

Elias watches him doze for a few moments, and almost feels guilty for having to wake him. He’s a tired-looking thing, young Jonathan, with his little touch of premature grey thinning out the hair at his temples, and the deep dark circles beneath his eyes. Some believe sleep eases the strain of one’s face and makes one look younger, but unfortunately, it is not so for Jon. His brow is furrowed deeply, even as his head remains pillowed in his arms. Elias catches glimpses of his dreams; far too many legs for Jon’s taste. Such little respite, even in his own head. What a shame. 

Then Elias places a hand upon Jon’s shoulder, and his expression when his eyes snap open is— _ oh _ . For a split-second it is vacant, perfectly receptive, as though anyone could look into him and take whatever thoughts they wished for their own, and then the dreamscape falls away like cobwebs as he realizes  _ no, this one, this is real,  _ and all the light rushes back into him with a start, and he even whimpers, confusion and relief and yes even  _ fear _ all melding together into a quiet, half-formed sound in the back of his throat, and it is  _ divine.  _

He sits up, and starts sputtering apologies. He didn’t mean to—he’d gotten caught up in his research, in his reading, and lost track of time, and it wasn’t his intention—

Elias removes his hand, and offers only a thin smile. Once upon a time,  _ he’d _ burned many a candle at both ends. Once upon a time it was  _ him,  _ trying to satisfy desperate cravings for knowledge. So he can’t blame Jon. Not really.

He wonders if, in time, those cravings of Jon’s may serve useful.

“Please stop forgetting to clock out, Mr. Sims. You’ve been giving Human Resources something of a headache.” 


	2. Day 2: Caretaking

* * *

At times it’s all too much for Jon. The seeing. The  _ knowing. _ He does not know where or when or  _ why _ he is and the thoughts crash around him and pound in his ears like waves upon a rocky shore and it is just  _ too much.  _ He has lost his appetite—for real food, of course, but for the statements too. The words blur at the edges of his vision and his mouth feels dry and wet at the same time. It feels like trying to eat with the stomach flu. It feels like a hangover designed by a universe that actively hates him. 

These times make him give up wholesale—he leaves the statement half-read, the meal half-eaten, and hunches over the wastebasket on his office floor. His skin is clammy and his bangs matted with sweat. He is afraid to move. He sits there and retches over nothing, and is almost grateful that Martin no longer has time for him. 

Sometimes he is able to pick up and get on with his day alone. The nausea subsides as it always does, without having to force any bile from his stomach; he will make time for a glass of water and get back to work, though the spinning thoughts in his head never truly stop. 

Sometimes he cannot—and in these cases, there comes the brush of fingertips across Jon’s forehead.

He’s not foolish enough to blame spirits for things like this, not anymore. No, he knows all too well who is touching his temple, who is responsible for the hair brushing behind one ear of its own accord, the gentle scrape of nails against his scalp as he tries not to be sick. He doesn’t know  _ how _ Elias manages to do it. Something about ethereal connections or strings of fate that Jon  _ really _ doesn’t care about, because frankly, he’d much rather be given permission to vomit in peace. 

Except that he doesn’t, ever. Not when Elias is—’there.’ The nonexistent pressure upon the crown of his head is soothing, like a compress on an aching wound. It slows the dizziness to something more manageable. It slides down to the back of his neck, warm and absurdly soft; comes to rest upon his back where it rubs in small, slow circles. The touch eases his nerves and unwinds his muscles, his stomach relaxes and he wants to  _ hate _ it, but he can’t. Elias quiets Jon’s mind. He makes him—feel  _ better.  _

Sometimes Jon won’t move for a while, even after the nausea passes. He doesn’t know if he  _ can. _ He feels boneless. Elias’s hand remains in his hair, stroking, scratching, for minutes after; it lulls him into a dark, quiet place, bordering on the edges of what could be sleep if he could bother to assess it. He will crane his head a little to one side, waiting for the hand to slip down to caress his cheek—and then it will be gone. 

Bastard. 


	3. Day 3: Queer Identity

* * *

Jon decides to wear a skirt to work one day. 

It takes no rationalization, and very little deliberation. It's too bloody hot out for slacks, and the skirt in question is perfectly work-appropriate—grey, pleated, breathable, long enough to be prudish let alone up to code. He wore plenty of skirts and dresses when he was in research, and the only remarks he'd ever received were from Diana in the library (who, in her kindly old-lady way, had asked Jon if he 'wasn't sure he'd like to be called something else' for a few weeks). It's not a problem, and has never  _ been _ a problem before; and if Jon finds that there suddenly  _ is _ a problem—well, he's not quite petty enough to file harassment claims against his own employees. He'll just see if any of them are bold enough to push him. 

But—no, there continues to be a lack of problems. Cases get recorded and organized; Sasha compliments his choice of matching shirt; Tim and Martin are working on leads regarding the Laylow statement but are having no luck. For as much as there  _ can  _ be no issues in this nightmare of an archive, there are none. Just a normal day.

Jon has leftovers for lunch, and finishes up the supplies order to bring to Elias in the afternoon. Rosie is out for her own late lunch when he gets there, and the door to Elias’s office, wide open; Jon walks on by without thinking much of it—and it is there, standing in the doorway, that there is suddenly a very  _ big  _ problem. 

Elias is staring at him, and it takes a long moment for Jon to process why. 

Because in spite of how working there has gone, he’s not exactly— _ out _ at the Institute. Not fully. His gender expression has been a sort of—complex, unknowable thing, and frankly, he’s fine with that. It’s not something he feels the  _ need _ to discuss, nor has it ever (again, with the exception of Diana) been a topic of conversation at all. He’s out to the people that matter, and that means Georgie and—well, Georgie. 

He is most certainly  _ not _ out to his boss. Not that it should be any of Elias’s business anyway, not that it should even be a—

"Jon." 

Elias hasn't stopped staring at him yet, but his blinks have slowed and his expression is, as usual, totally unreadable. Jon looks away, the scrutiny making sweat bead on the back of his neck, and clears his throat. 

"I, ah. Supply form. For you to go over." 

"—Yes, I did ask for that, didn't I." Then: "You look lovely today." 

That is most certainly  _ not _ the comment Jon is expecting, and it shows whether he likes it or not; his cheeks are burning all the long march up to Elias's desk, and he nearly hits him in the face with the paper.  _ Very smooth, Jon. You are, as ever, the picture of relaxation. _

He keeps waiting for a joke, a pointed question, a statement of disapproval—but it never arrives. Elias has nothing more to offer him than a calm smile and a 'thank you' for his report. And that's that. 

If Elias is more smitten than ever with his Archivist after that day—Jon certainly isn't made aware of it.


	4. Day 4: Religious Themes

* * *

Elias— _ Jonah _ —has always had a predisposition towards zealotry. 

His upbringing, most likely, is at fault; there was no one among the English aristocracy, man or otherwise, who at that age had not the word of God beaten into them. It embittered some children toward the church—secretly, of course—but Jonah found solace in it. He found morbid fascination, and then—yes, probably obsession as well. 

He knew from a young age that he had no interest in being a saint. Saints martyred themselves for their status; saints paid Death for their miracles. Jonah would know no such thing. Not if he could help it. Not when iniquity seemed to promise  _ so _ much more. But he did his duty—attended every service, knew his hymns by heart, even sang in the choir all during his school years. He grew, and perfected his zealotry, all the while directing his prayers to a very different kind of god. 

This god did not answer prayers—not in the way Jonah believed gods would. His god, the one he  _ chose _ , was silent and contemplative. It did not want him to blindly follow—it wanted him to  _ learn _ . It wanted him to enlighten himself, to devise his own means and ends. It knew not good and evil. Only fear—pure, consecrated, beautiful fear. It was this god that Jonah would make obeisance to, and this god alone. 

In doing so, Jonah created perfection. Hundreds of years, dozens of failures—but he made something as beautiful as the fear it contained. This vessel of knowledge, at once holy and profane. His sharp-tongued saint, who had willingly martyred himself again and again; who had felt the touch of Death and still lived. His Archive. His  _ Archivist.  _

Kings are not meant to sublimate before their own creations—but the Archivist has been as much molded by the hand of Jonah’s god as by Jonah’s own hand. Kings bow to holy messengers, yet not to their own knights. 

How, then, would Jonah best show his gratitude? With kisses, he supposes. The unbreakable contract of lips upon lips. He would litter wasted promises across scarred flesh, acts of worship that would feel so profound for all that they meant  _ nothing _ —they would be connected not simply in thought but in body, at once blessed and vile, and it would be  _ beautiful. _

Yes—were Jonathan with him now, Jonah is quite sure—he would kiss him. 


End file.
